Is It Really Worth It?
by Naraku No Hanna
Summary: basically, I took both of my SVU stories, and stuck them in the same little box. creative, huh. No longer a One-Shot, but a collection of them. Not exactly good for children. touches on Abuse, Death, Murder, I.E. whatever I feel like writing at the time.
1. He Loves Me Really

_**Story:**__ He Loves Me… Really_

_**Published:**__ 5/8/08_

_**Summary:**__ She knew what he was doing was wrong, She knew she needed to escape. So why couldn't she?_

_**Rating:**__ T_

_**Beta:**__ 'Chelle_

_Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. The funny thing about this story, really, is the fact that I'm not really a huge fan of SVU. It was my Beta 'Chelle who told me to put it in this category, so if you like it, you have her to thank. Enjoy the story._

_-NnH_

Sometimes I wonder why I do it, I think to myself as I apply yet another layer of coverup to my rapidly darkening bruises.

I wonder why I don't just leave.

He's hardly ever happy, unless he's drunk of course, which is all the time now. When he gets drunk, he gets mean. He hits me, beats me, constantly. It never ends. No matter how hard I try I'm useless in his eyes. I try so hard to be helpful, just to do one thing right. Every day I tell myself that it's not his fault, that he would love me if I tried just a bit harder, was just a bit better. But no matter how much I do, how hard I try, it's never enough.

There's going to be company tonight. I haven't cleaned yet. I haven't even begun preparing. There's no food in the house, and so it's my job to get the supplies from the store.

Which means going to the supermarket.

Which means going outside.

Which means hoping to god that no one notices the fresh bruises still only partially covered up by my makeup. They'll only buy my "I walked into a wall" excuse so many times.

I examine my face in the mirror one last time, giving up on my face and arms. It's not like they are going to get any better anyways. I throw on a dark sweater, enough to cover the bruises on my collarbone, and arms. It also hides my rapidly thinning frame, proof of my "loving" husband's alcohol addiction, which is a plus.

He was so kind and sweet when we met, I think, as I climb into my car. I nearly collapse as I get in, my ribs screaming in pain. I think he may have hit me harder than I originally thought, because it was getting harder and harder to breath with each movement. When I met him, he swept me off my feet. He was my knight in shining armor, my love, my everything. He was wonderful, he was helpful, and he was perfect.

Why couldn't I see what he was?

It was fine when we married for a while. Then he started drinking. It was only a bit at first, a beer or two a night, and his work started going later and later. I tried to ignore it at first, tried to tell myself that everything was normal, but it got worse and worse. He began having me do more and more around the house, yelling and screaming if it wasn't done to perfection.

Why didn't I see the signs?

The first time he hit me, I honestly wasn't that surprised. Oh, I acted surprised, and for a while I even fooled myself into thinking I didn't know it was coming. That was a lie. I had seen it coming, seen him getting more and more violent, angrier. I block out things I don't want to acknowledge. A skill I learned from my mother. If you pretend hard enough, then what you think is true, it can _be_ true. The first time he held me in his arms immediately afterwards, just as he did every time he went too far after that.

He apologized, and told me it would never happen again. I believed him, just as I did every time he went too far after that. But I won't do it anymore. I _can't_ do it anymore. I'm going to walk out this time. I'm not going to go back. After this dinner party, I will be gone, and he won't ever be able to find me.

Why does it sound like I'm lying to myself?

I go through the night perfectly. I smile and nod in all the right places, I ask to take our guests coats. I laugh where appropriate, serve all the right things, and am constantly aware of what's going on. The night goes off without a hitch. I am the perfect hostess, the perfect wife, and I am constantly turning over in my mind how to escape. Every step I take, every movement I make, sends a sharp flaring pain through my ribs and ankle, but I am also the perfect actress, and so no one will ever know. I'm almost at my limit though. I'm not sure how much more I can take before I brake.

Why do I keep going?

He takes me aside after the dinner, after everyone had left. I knew he would see my pain. I _knew_ it. Now it was going to be worse. I fight the urge to run as he towers above me, advancing quickly, far quicker than I could ever move, _especially_ in this state. I look down, making sure not to meet his eyes, knowing that it's forbidden. He stops, and I flinch, tensing, waiting for the expected blows to come raining down on my already damaged body, but they never come. Instead I feel his strong arms encircle me, and just like that first time, so many years ago, he pulls me just tight enough to keep from hurting me. He tells me that it was an accident, tells me that it will never happen again. He tells me how sorry he is, and how he never wanted to hurt me.

Why do I believe him?

My mind is screaming at me not to believe him, to run, but I look up at him, just a glance at the start, and he catches my gaze. All the sudden I'm crying trying to hold back the tears. He tells me it's ok to cry, tells me again how sorry he is, waiting for me to accept his apology.

"You won't hurt me again? You promise?" it will never change.

"Promise" I will never escape.

But for a little while, it's ok. As long as he's holding me, it's ok. He's warm, and comforting, and just before I fall asleep in his arms I think:

I know why I don't leave

Because no matter what, in my mind, these few seconds, where he tells me just enough to keep me from leaving, where his only objective is to keep me with him, trapped, are completely worth all the pain and heartache he instills upon me during the rest of the year. Just those three words, he whispers as I drift off to sleep, are worth everything.

"I love you."

End


	2. No Good Deed

_**Story:**__ No Good Deed_

_**Published:**__ 5/15/08_

_**Summary:**__ I am right. They can't stop me, I'll never give in to them. _

_**Rating:**__ T_

_**Beta:**__ 'Chelle_

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_I had SO much fun writing this one actually ... it was originally going to be a Snape fic, about how much he hates everyone in Hogwarts, but it kind of morphed into THIS. Eh... it was fun in any case. flame or review if you want, constructive criticism is appreciated. Thanks a lot, and have fun reading._

_-NnH_

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I hate them.

Every. Last. One.

People say that hate is a strong word.

I want a word stronger than hate.

Despise, maybe. Or loathing.

It Doesn't matter, in the end, I guess. It's all the same thing really. These thoughts will never escape my mind. they will never be known to the outside world, only to the little group of little people who live in my home, willingly or not.

Children. Stuck up, bigoted little things, they can't keep quiet for more than a minute, Their shrill voices piercing my ears every second of every day. They never mature. The screaming, whining children I see every day become screaming, whining teenagers, who become screaming, whining adults.

I hate them all.

They think they are _so_ much better than everyone else, but they're not. They think they know everything, that their thoughts and opinions are the only ones that matter. They think that years of experience has nothing to do with knowledge, and that they are never wrong.

I hate them all.

They are obnoxious little shits, after all. They never have enough. No matter what they have, no matter what you do, it's never good enough. They're spoiled little brats through and through.

If the idiot child's parents don't want to play with the thing, said parents are accused of being negligent. If a parent tells a child to clean their room, the parent is an asshole. And if a parent hits a child upside the head, to get them to calm down, the parent is abusive. Children never appreciate what the have until the loose it, and when they do, the feel entitled to have it back. They don't realize that there are consequences for their actions.

I hate them all.

Their parents cry when they are gone. I don't know why, but all the same, they always cry. Their children are stupid, and come willingly, always crying when the see that there's no turning back. They always cry. It never changes.

Even if no one else sees it, I'm doing them a favor. The children, the parents, I'm doing them all a favor. I teach their little shits to appreciate what they had, teaching them to take nothing for granted.

I do kill them after, but really, that's just self. If the children told, you see, I would be put away. I would be taken, and my work would be done, all because I let one go.

It's better that they don't reach adulthood anyway. They're far better off dead. At least that way, they can't contribute to the shithole called earth. Inevitably their parents will be _glad _that I took their child. Yes, they will grieve, but isn't it much better for them to be able to remember their child as the kind, promising, innocent girl or boy that it was in it's early years?

The parents of the children will never have to watch them cry, never have to hear "I hate you!". They will never have to hear that their child is cutting themselves, or has an eating disorder. Never have to be told that their child is gay, or pregnant, on drugs, or drinking. They can forever hold on to the innocent child the had. These parents will see the truth eventually, but for now they mourn.

Some of the children realize the gift I am giving to their families before they go. I save them, allowing them the honor of finishing themselves. I envy them the most, to have the ability to leave whenever you want, I want nothing more.

I long to bring the cool silver metal to my arm, to feel the sharp pain that signals the release of the very substance that has kept me tethered to this world for so long. I long to close my eyes, embracing the darkness I have spent my life seeking. I long to let go, to give in, and finally rest, but I can't. I still have work to do, and I must do all I can before I am allowed to finally die.

Everything I do, I do for them, and yet, they can't see it. They have no idea. The police say I have to be stopped, and they're tracking me. They will catch me soon, and I will be finished with my work, willingly or not. Society doesn't understand the need for people like me, and thus, when I am caught, I know I will be killed. They will try to tell me that what I am doing is wrong, and I will never believe them, But until then, I'll keep trying, and I'll keep going.

They say that no good deed goes unpunished.

I suppose, the greater the good, the harsher the punishment.

3

End

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End file.
